


Nipples

by ceywoozle



Series: One Word Bottomjohn Prompts [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Nipples, Nobody knows, Suckling, i don't even know what this is, is it just weird?, is this erotic?, this is the weirdest fucking thing i've ever written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 15:48:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3331091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceywoozle/pseuds/ceywoozle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>part of the one word bottomjohn prompt series.</p><p>one of the things sherlock and john do in the dark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nipples

**Author's Note:**

> check the tags. i don't know what this is. i really don't.

Dark.

Outside, the window cracked to the cool spring night, the rush of traffic is a suggestive hum in the background of the city, the exhalation of a living thing. It is a presence in the room, keeping the small noises that come from the couch unnoticeable.

Small sounds. Indistinguishable in the rush of london’s breath, the blood beating in the vein of Baker Street. So small. You wouldn’t think to ask what they were if you didn’t know.

Dark.

London never sleeps, its watches traded hand to hand, passed from person to person. It’s been a very long time since the air above these streets has been silent, the earth buried beneath concrete and cobble stone and mud long since pounded into submission and silence.

No, not silence. It is quiet, but it is not silent.

There is the sound of suckling, of wet skin being suctioned, of something being sated in the deeper shadows of the sofa. Some darker appetite being fed.

Two bodies, almost indistinguishable, dark clothes blending in together with just the pale emergence of hands and faces to lend humanity to the shapes, and the single long line of a white chest uncovered.

A hand reaches up, long fingers splaying in silver hair. The head it rests on presses into the touch. A sound, like a moan, muffled against damp flesh.

“Well done.” A voice, deep and rough and low. “Good boy.”

The sounds continue, the silver head dipping down again, honing in on its place. Wet lips, shining in the fog of light from the street, clamp down on the chest again, a pink tongue seeking that tiny upraised nub, red and sore and swollen. Lips beginning to swell with overuse and exertion, their flesh match in tone and temperature the stiff nipple they seek.

The night is quiet. Dark. London hums. And on the sofa, safe and covered, John suckles.


End file.
